The Adventure of La Gargouille
by SamuelClark1975
Summary: After visiting a striking art exhibit at the National Gallery (Tate), based on the legend of La Gargouille Holmes and Watson discover the curator's sister is missing and investigate a macabre trail of evidence in locating her.


**The Adventure of La Gargouille**

"You must get out," I exclaimed. "You have locked yourself in the confines of these rooms for nearly a month." Holmes did not respond and lit his pipe. I took it upon myself to begin gathering up the numerous newspaper pages that littered the floor, emptying his ashtrays and trying to organise the mess that were his rooms. As I was doing so I noticed, on his study table, numerous pages of foolscap paper all marked with black smudges. I was about to pick them up when Holmes exclaimed.

"No. Please, Watson. You can take it upon yourself to clean my apartment, but I ask you to leave my study desk alone."

"Why?" I asked.

"I'm engaged in studying the markings left behind by a persons fingers. I first noticed it when Mrs. Hudson was complaining about stains on the window glass. I believe these markings are unique to every individual and my studies may prove useful in criminal cases. Of course the problem lies in the monumental task of cataloguing the population and making prints of each finger. But I believe if one begins with known criminals..."

"Where is Mrs. Hudson?" I interrupted.

"She refuses to maintain her duties. 'I am not your mother and I am not your maid.' I believe were her exact words."

"You ought to go careful, she might just throw you out."

"She might," said he as he exhaled smoke. "But it is unlikely, given how much rent I pay to live here. Three times above the market rate." I stopped in the midst of gathering the newspaper sheets and looked at him with surprise.

"Have you found anything in these newspapers, perhaps a case worth investigating?" He shook his head.

"It seems all of London is devoid of interesting criminal cases, and even if there were any, I hardly think anyone would engage my astute powers at this point in time."

"How do you mean?" I asked, noting the defeated expression on his face.

"In the three cases we have been engaged up to this point I have solved but one. The case of the waiting man. I wouldn't even hire myself. My track record is not encouraging to the public at large and my relationship with the police..." He trailed off, sighed and inhaled on his pipe in contemplative mood.

"We should take a walk, London is in full spring bloom and the fresh air might lift your spirits." I replied, glancing at the clock on his mantle.

"One does wonder why you maintain such an odd habit." I looked at him blankly. "Your Friday afternoon Mauresque, of course."

"Of course." I did not furnish him with any reason as, well quite frankly, I did not know myself. "It's just something I like to do."

"Where is Mary?"

"In Lincolnshire for the weekend, visiting family."

"Ahh yes, her northern roots." I glared at him once more, wondering how he came by this knowledge, but did not pursue it further as, no doubt, he would delay with a long speech in how he deduced this from the small pieces of knowledge he had observed. Silence remained and he sat staring off into the middle distance.

"I have been undertaking some very early studies on how sunlight affects the human body. I believe it contains a vital vitamin that cannot be gained from food. It works much like it does in plants and the process of photosynthesis." I said, breaking the silence, trying to appeal to his scientific mind.

"And what happens if one doesn't get this vital vitamin?" He asked, intrigued.

"I am not certain. But a healthy body, I believe, is directly related to a healthy mind. As the body becomes weary and unstimulated, it therefore follows that the mind will become weary too." Holmes arched an eyebrow and studied me with wary suspicion. "Also the act of exercise stimulates blood flow to the brain, keeping it active and stimulated." I added further. Holmes thought for a moment, and stood up.

"I suppose a walk wouldn't hurt. The confining space of these rooms is warring on my spirits."

There were only a few hours of daylight left and the streets we walked were quiet, a very tranquil and relaxed atmosphere permeated, lit by the white orange hue of the intermittent gaslight street lamps.

"It is delightfully beautiful." I remarked.

"What?" Holmes replied, bluntly.

"London, its street, its lights, its architecture. One could hardly think of living anywhere else in the civilised world. It is a melting pot of people and art and all that is to be enjoyed."Holmes thought a moment before he responded.

"You are forever the optimist, Watson and your point of view I find uplifting. You see all the positive elements and look upon it with romantic eyes. Whereas I see these streets, the people and the objects within as a function of my work. That hansom cab for instance, and its broken wheel. At some point I anticipate that if its owner doesn't see to having it fixed it may result in a catastrophe of some sort, resulting in the deaths, or serious injury of any one fool enough to ride in it. Or that married couple over there, you may see them and remark at their happiness and their luck at finding each other, whereas I see the distance in their eyes, their lack of interest in each other and the lack of conversation between the two. One or both could be having an extra marital affair and they may come to me to discover such a fact. I also note the texture and the consistency of the dirt under our feet, a clay compound, and how, without much rain in the past few days, the dirt has a remarked sand like quality. For, at a later date I might recognise it on the shoes of a client or criminal and can conclude that he, or she has walked this very street. Of course all is for nought in such speculation. My mind longs to cling itself to a problem, so it reaches out for one, when perhaps there is none there."

"You take all the joys out of life, Holmes."

"Such is my curse, and the path I've chosen."

"Have you had any offers of work, any client come to you in these past few weeks?"

"Three to be exact, but none are worthy of note. I solved each case from the confines of my apartment."

"Really?"

"Yes, the case of Miss Duke's missing cat. The concerns of Mr. and Mrs. Leigh, both asked me to investigate whether the other was having an extra marital affair. At separate times, of course." I glanced across at him and he smirked wryly. "And just this morning a young man, an artist, or painter of some fashion came to me concerning his missing lover. He had not seen nor heard from her in ten days. It might have been of interest but I made my conclusions from the questions I asked of him, the returned letters, and his general appearance and mood, the man had let himself go, so to speak. His beard was at least a week in growth, he looked pale, his clothes had accumulated a certain grubbiness. He presented a picture of depression and forlorn loss."

"Might you have mistaken it with anxiety over his missing lover?"

"Even in anxiety a person still maintains hope and while a lack of grooming and maintenance over ones appearance may occur, this man painted a picture of a complete lack of hope and expressed in his words not the faintest sign of optimism."

"Indeed."

"His lover, I later discovered through my questioning had some months ago, cut off all contact with him and thus finished the affair. And forgive me if I theorise, I believe he was so unable to cope with the loss he constructed a story that became real to him. I dare-say that he found the loss easier to cope with if forces outside his control were responsible. Is there not more sorrow and despair gained by facing the reality that someone one cares so much about doesn't wish to have anything to do with one. Is it not easier on his soul to believe that she had been abducted, kidnapped or killed."

"But how could you be sure she hadn't?"

"The returned letters. For how could a person abducted or killed write on the envelope and post it after the date he claimed to have stopped hearing from her?"

"What was this poor man's name?" I asked as we approached the Red Lion, the inn I frequented.

"Christophe Laurent." Holmes stepped through the door and I was left stunned.

" _The_ Christophe Laurent?" I asked, as we took a seat by the window.

"How do you mean?"

"Surely you've heard of him, he is known throughout Europe as one of the finest artistic craftsman. His sculptures and paintings fetch prices you or I could only dream of. He goes by the singular name ' _Laurent_ '. He is shrouded in mystery and speculation, he never gives interviews and never appears in public to promote his work or speak of it in any way."

"Sorry, I haven't heard of him."

"But he and his latest exhibition have been the talk of London for weeks, surely you came upon the article in The Times _._ A full page profile of his character, his art?"

"I must've skimmed over that particular page."

"Didn't you say you observe everything? For your work?"

"I also rely on you to take note of things I may have missed," said he, with a confident smile. We were interrupted momentarily when the waiter asked for our order. I took a Mauresque and Holmes a tall glass of Belgian beer. "Why, he has an exhibition opening this weekend, tomorrow in fact. Mary left me a couple of tickets before she left for Lincoln." I added. "Would you be interested?"

"What is the exhibition of- paintings, a sculpture?"

"No one is privy to that information, it's all part and parcel of the mystery, but it is rumoured that the exhibit has taken up a huge section of the National Gallery Of British Art." Holmes's eyes widened with surprise.

"Ah, a very good sales ploy. And has produced a result, if he and his work are the talk of London and Europe. What is the nature of his work?"

"It's rather macabre. The exhibit in Venice concerned that of autopsy, its history and all the finer details surrounding it. He fashioned cadavers out of... I forget, exactly, but by all accounts they looked life like and very real. The centre piece of his projects are the most talked about. There were even protests at the work, calls for him to be investigated, which only added to the fervour and interest in his work."

"So, he has something of a reputation and it might explain his nature and some insight into his character. To spend so much time around such dark things must weigh on the soul."

"To put it mildly. So, will you come?"

"I shall," said he. "I must admit I am rather intrigued as to what subject he chooses for this London exhibition."

The waiter came and laid our drinks on the table and we spent the rest of the evening in conversation on lighter matters.

The following evening we arrived at the National Gallery Of British Art and it seemed every Londoner of high standing in society had come, including many common folk such as myself. Holmes was notably anxious as we waited at the entrance for our tickets to be checked and our entrance authorised. The spring air was warm and pleasant and as such many tables and chairs had been laid out in the Gallery forecourt where people were already enjoying drinks and food. We entered the first section of the exhibition. A long and wide hallway of the gallery had been used for this particular section, the windows had been blacked out with curtains and candles were used to light the tableau on the walls at either side. These tableau were approximately four foot by six and all depicted the legend of St. Romanis and his slaying of the dragon known as La Gargouille. They were reminiscent of some of Hieronymus Bosch's paintings on hell and the seven deadly sins. A huge grey dragon swooping over the small town of Rouen and the river Seine. In another painting the town of Rouen was consumed in fire and its boats and stone houses were all crumbled and broken. Holmes relived his anxiety of large crowds by focusing on each painting and the writing that accompanied it. I studied them myself and the writings gave a little of the story surrounding the myth. Holmes stood at one particular painting, that of a priest in a long black cloak walking along a dirt road toward the town of Rouen in the far distance. A great dark sky with a green hue hung heavy in the background. I remained in silent awe of the paintings, they were quite disturbing to the soul and visceral in their depictions. One felt like one was being swallowed in the dark legend. I turned and looked upon the crowds all marvelling in either disgust or praise at the unusual representations of the story of La Gargouille.

"That is certainly specious reasoning." Holmes suddenly said.

"Pardon?"

"It states here that these gargoyles adorn churches in order to keep evil spirits away."

"Yes."

"Well I could claim, by the same reasoning that my tobacco pipe keeps tigers away from London." I regarded him, confused. "Have you seen any tigers in London, recently?"

"No. Not that I recall."

"Then my tobacco pipe is doing its good work. As are these gargoyles." I smirked a little at his joke and Holmes led the way into the next room picking up a flute of champagne from a passing waiter.

Here, there were numerous statues, sculptures and busts of gargoyles and grotesques. The floor underfoot was covered with a black carpet, and black velvet sheets covered the surrounding walls, even a black sheet hung from the ceiling, some fifteen feet above us. The largest of the gargoyles was no more than three feet and all were stood on individual pulpits. They were lit by candlelight from a shelves underneath and it had the effect of highlighting their gruesome faces in the orange glow of the individual flame. A stark contrast amongst the blackness. The excited chatter of the ladies and gentleman in the previous room had died into an eerie quiet silence. They were no longer horrified or full of high praise. It was as if a spell of the melancholy and sombre had taken over the room and the audience that looked upon the sculptures. A collective and silent horror. It was at once disturbing and powerful and the ladies drew closer to their accompanying gentlemen. This eerie silence remained as we progressed through three more rooms full of a variety of depictions of gargoyles. Paintings, sculptures, stone and clay busts, charcoal and pencil sketches, smaller oil paintings, it was a tumult and hard to believe that just one man had produced so much work. Clearly the product of an obsession, a thought that added to the disturbing nature of the work and to its power over the audience. The most powerful piece of work was yet to come.

Only two persons at a time were allowed into the chamber, under the specific instruction of "Laurent" the artist. As we waited in line outside I overheard hushed conversations remarking on the experience. Some were so shocked they could little handle it. A few women had fainted and had been taken away, nothing too serious they had merely become overwhelmed at the experience and were easily roused again with a little water and some smelling salts.

We passed through the doors and walked a short way along a darkened corridor. Upon entering the chamber I started with fear and glanced over my shoulder as the door slammed shut behind us. The room was shrouded in pitch darkness and my heart pounded at the anticipation of what was to come. Holmes stood beside me and whispered.

"It is all rather amusing isn't it?"

"Quite." I replied.

"Rather like a Carnival fun house only with a touch more class."

Silence and darkness ensued for several moments and just as my patience and indeed my nerves were wearing thin the room erupted in light as numerous shutters were opened simultaneously. The light revealed La Gargouille, a sculpture that stood with an immense presence and dominated the room. The thing was so menacing, so refined in its detail that I briefly entertained the thought that it was about to spring to life and expel fire from its open jaws. Its powerful muscular legs were perched on a stone block. The finish on the sculpture glistened in the candlelight and then I noticed the eyes. They too glistened, with a faint green shine and it seemed that they were staring down at me. Its wings were spread as if in mid flight and they reached across the entirety of the chamber to the point of almost touching the walls.

"I wonder as to how they managed to manoeuvre such a great thing into the room." I remarked to Holmes.

"I would suggest that these walls are false and the chamber we stand in is smaller than the actual room. Note the windows and the shutters that once opened cast candlelight upon the statue. And surely you noticed the short walk we made after entering the door into the room? The walls were built around the statue." Holmes said.

"Well it produces a very overwhelming effect."

"Yes. I imagine that was the artists intent. The large pieces, the paintings and sculptures are meant this way. It stirs an oppressive spirit within the viewer. Most impressive."

"And what of the smaller pieces?"

"I think he wants to give us a sense of the time it took to create. The smaller depictions are all sketches and pre designs of the finished ones. Again, it weighs heavy on the viewers mind and directs them to think of a progression of time and development to get to the final pieces. A disturbing sense of obsession."

"Do you have a sideline in artistic criticism as well as private investigation?"

"No, I merely used my powers of observation and interpretation and applied it here. Although I am slightly vexed as to the reasons for the floral odour permeating the room."

"Odour?"

"Yes do you not smell it? Lavender blossom, with a slight hint of... of... I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Perhaps it is merely the smell of ladies perfume. Quite a number of women have past through this room before us."

"Of course. Simplicity itself," said he. "Care for a drink outside?"

"Yes." I said with relief.

We joined the many patrons, ladies and gentlemen that had just experienced the exhibit in the large forecourt of the gallery. There was an excited air of debate and discussion filling the spring air, some expressing their profound horror while others, their in depth appreciation. I was glad to be out of the oppressive atmosphere and comforted my nerves with a glass of port and a cigarette. Holmes remained in silence as he filled his tobacco pipe.

"If it isn't the most eligible bachelor in all London." A female French accented, voice came from behind me and Holmes glanced up in her direction. Upon turning in my seat I was surprised, if not shocked to find a most beautiful woman, dressed of all things in a man's suit and coat tails. She inhaled on a long rhinohorn cigarette holder that permeated a myrrhy scent. We both paused in confusion as to her identity. "Allow me to introduce myself, Adeline De Monseignat."

"The wife of the curator, no less." Holmes replied in sudden realisation. "This is my associate and friend Dr. John Watson."

"Charmed," she said, in her husky but elegant voice.

"Why, if I may ask, are you dressed in a man's suit?" I asked after greeting her. I pulled out the spare seat and she sat, crossing her legs with a broad smile.

"My husband was unable to attend and I have a penchant for stirring up controversy and talk amongst the upper classes."

"And it sells tickets no doubt."

"There you have me, Mr. Holmes," said she. "How did you like the exhibit?"

"Not without merit." Holmes replied plainly.

"What about you Doctor?"

"Very emotionally stirring. I find myself quite affected, if not altogether disturbed." Adeline smiled proudly and inhaled on her cigarette. A silence dropped and we sipped our drinks.

"My sister is a keen follower of your exploits and investigations."

"She is?"

"Yes, she takes a lot of enjoyment from reading Dr. Watson's stories." Holmes looked across at me. I shrank with embarrassment, for I had not yet told him that I had been writing up our cases together and selling them to The Strand magazine.

"You two must come for dinner, out in her country house tomorrow afternoon, she would be most delighted to meet you. She doesn't choose to go out much, not since she broke off her engagement." Holmes looked at her upon hearing this last statement. "She has retreated within herself, so to speak. I have been meaning to visit for some months but with the exhibition and the preparations taking up my time I haven't had a spare moment."

"Where does your sister live?" I asked.

"Not far. A small family Manor outside Basingstoke."

"What is your sister's name?"

"Thérèse Rapin." Holmes raised his brow on hearing this and I got the distinct sense his mind was at work. "So you'll come?"

"When was the last occasion you heard or spoke to your sister?" He asked further. Adeline thought on his question for a brief moment. "A long time ago. Like I say I have been overwhelmed with work."

"More than ten days?"

"Yes, perhaps longer. Why do you ask?"

"And who was she engaged to?"

"Christophe Laurent. He's the most difficult man and while I value his work and the profits that come from it. The man is awful and it's the only reason I put up with him. I honestly couldn't see what Thérèse saw in him. I was relieved when she finally came to her senses and broke it off." Again Holmes looked at her with his pensive glare. "So you'll come?"

"Yes, we'd be glad to." I said.

"Fabulous. I'll have a coach pick you up in the morning." She said as she stood. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go and mingle. Perhaps provoke a bit of controversy." She added with a wink and I watched her walk away.

"That was rather sly."

"Sly?"

"I do believe you're the subject of some mischievous matchmaking."

"You do?" Holmes said with surprise.

"What was the reasoning behind your questions?"

"I believe I may have been wrong in my initial evaluation of Christophe Laurent's claim."

"So you believe Thérèse is missing?"

"I guess we will discover that tomorrow."

The morning mist had cleared by the time our coach reached the small manor house and I was quite surprised to find just how far it was from the nearest village and how isolated the place was. Holmes and I had arrived a little before Adeline and as we approached the house I noticed its gardens had gone unattended for quite some time. Weeds had begun to sprout in the overgrown grass. It was surrounded by wild countryside and farmland that stretched as far as the eye could see. Sunflower fields and giant white cows languished in the cool spring air. Holmes stopped before the front gate and engaged himself in peering at the ground and the dirt road.

"Holmes?" I called out from my position at the front door.

"That is most coincidental." He said as he joined me.

"What?" I enquired.

"There are coach tracks on the dirt road and they seem to suggest that the coach had a broken wheel."

"How on earth do you conclude that?"

"Well there are sections within the tracks where the impression in the dirt is deeper. And the adjoining track juts out slightly, suggesting the wheel on the left side is either buckled or broken. It's probably nothing to concern ourselves with." I was about to knock on the door when Adeline arrived in her coach and joined us.

"Salut, gentlemen. I see you made good time. Why are you standing outside the door?"

"I was just this minute about to knock, Madame De Monseignat."

"You can dispense with formalities, Doctor. Well, what are you waiting for?" And promptly, I knocked. There was no answer and when I knocked again the door fell slightly ajar. Holmes paused grimly while Adeline strode into the house unabashed.

"Thérèse?" She called out but the only reply was a still silence. Adeline was about to venture further into the house and the corridor when Holmes stopped her, gripping her upper arm.

"What on earth is the matter?"

"I believe something terrible has happened Madame, and I would caution you not to step further into the house for a fear that you might contaminate the scene and disrupt any meaningful evidence."

"Evidence? Evidence of what?"

"Your sister's abduction." Holmes said. Adeline recoiled in shock and remained silent.

"Surely you jest with me?" She asked, her voice quivering with fear, but hiding it under an expression of light-heartedness.

"If you'll allow me to examine the house." Adeline nodded and Holmes set about studying the details of the house. First he looked upon the floor and the hardwood there. From his crouched position he said, "See these markings on the floor here. They suggest a struggle. There are significant shoe scuffs." He stood up and walked along the corridor into the adjoining living room. Both I and Adeline watched as Holmes examined the room. Upon finishing he addressed us again.

"This chair, why is it facing away from the fireplace? Surely it is normal practice to place a chair in such a fashion as to gain the most from its warmth. And these books why are they upon the floor in such disarray? I'm afraid it suggests a struggle."

"But who would do such a thing? Who would want to kidnap her and why?"

"Someone who drives a hansom cab with a broken wheel."

"Please, do everything in your power to find her, safe and well."

Holmes looked at her grimly. "I will," said he, most assuredly. "Do you know how I might contact this Christophe Laurent?"

"Yes. He keeps an apartment in London." Her voice quivered again with distress and she almost fainted, but I had my wits about me and caught her before she fell. After a time of recovery and over a couple of stiff drinks Holmes asked Adeline some rudimentary questions that provided little as to the identity of her abductor. Satisfied, we parted ways with Adeline De Monseignat assuring her again, that we would discover her sister and bring her abductor to justice.

"My arrogance and complacency might have killed this poor Thérèse Rapin." He suddenly said in the coach ride back to London. He had remained in quiet contemplation for some time until then. "I shouldn't have dismissed Laurent's case. And I fear it has doomed the poor woman."

"Take heart I'm sure your powers of deduction will save her."

"My abilities may be of little use now?"

"How so?"

"I think she may already be dead. Too much time has passed since her abduction. Which I estimate happened two or three months ago."

"But how do you explain Laurent's returned letters. Were they not returned within the past ten days? Surely that is something we can hang our hopes on."

"Your gifts of optimism are invaluable to me, Watson."

"What is to be your course of investigation?"

"It may be a stretch, and something of a serendipitous coincidence but do you remember the Hansom cab with the broken wheel I pointed out on Friday?"

"I do."

"This will be my starting point."

We arrived back in London and Holmes's rooms at 221b and immediately took the same route to the Red Lion Inn as we had done on that Friday evening and sure enough we came upon the hansom cab with the broken wheel. In order to discover the hansom cab's owner we canvassed the apartments and shops nearby. None laid claim to the hansom cab, but all protested at its presence. We discovered it had been there for two months, give or take a day but were at a loss as to discovering its owner.

Holmes strolled around the cab inspecting it with his keen eye attempting to ascertain any clue as to the owner. Then he opened the door and climbed inside.

"Any luck?" I said.

"Nothing, but..." He paused in thought and sniffed the air. "It has been thoroughly cleaned and valeted. I would suggest it is no more than five years old and... there's that smell again."

"What smell?"

"The floral odour I pointed out in the national gallery and there was a vague sense of it back at Thérèse's house. Definitely perfume, but what kind? Do you have any knowledge of perfumes, Watson? I imagine you're around it more than I. What perfume does Mary prefer?"

"So you think this was the cab used by the abductor?"

"But of course, I have no doubt. The identity of the perfume may give us a clue as to the persons standing. Is it expensive, rare, commonly sold in perfumeries." He said as he climbed out of the cab.

"Well I might suggest it is popular, seen as how it seems to be filling the air everywhere we go."

"A salient point, Watson."

"Oi." A voice suddenly came causing both myself and Holmes to look to its source. "Get away from there, what do you think you're doing?" The man said. He was in his fortieth year or thereabouts and was dressed well in suit and tie.

"And who might you be?"

"The owner of that cab, I'll have you know."

"Good, we've been looking for you." The man paused with surprise.

"Looking for me?"

"Yes, do you perchance know a woman by the name Thérèse Rapin?" The man paused again with confusion written across his face.

"No, sorry I don't."

"And this is your cab?"

"Just who are you two anyway, nosing about by possessions and asking these questions."

"I am Doctor John Watson and this is Sherlock Holmes. We are investigating the disappearance of Thérèse Rapin and we believe this cab may have been used in her abduction."

"You can relax Mr...?"

"Peter Serry, is my name."

"We are not accusing you of abducting the girl, since you clearly haven't used to cab since you bought it, some months ago I believe?"

"Yes. From a rather uncouth young gentlemen who rents a workspace from me. I am something of an entrepreneur. I own and rent out warehouses and I run a small arts journal. I bought the cab so as I might expand my small empire and begin a cab service."

"What was this young man's name?" Holmes asked.

"I forget now. Please come inside. I'll see if I can find it amongst my records."

We followed Mr. Serry inside and ascended the narrow stair case. The man owned several floors. The top two he used as a living space and the ones below were fitted out as offices, numerous papers and paperwork and desks cluttered the rooms and if it were not a Sunday would've been the height of activity.

"Ah, here we are, a Monsieur Laurent."

"Christopher Laurent?"

"Yes, that is correct."

"And does he still rent the workspace?"

"I'm afraid not. It was a six month lease and expired at the end of last week." Mr. Serry said, studying the document.

"We're going to need the address of that workspace."

We said our goodbyes and thank yous to Peter Serry and set forth on the trail of Christophe Laurent. The apartment he was living in had been vacated and any indication of a previous occupant had vanished, there was simply nothing there, as if the apartment had been freshly built and awaiting its first tenant. Our only hope was the workspace. And we hadn't fully concluded that Laurent was Thérèse's abductor, for he did report her missing a fortnight ago.

The workspace wasn't so much a workspace as a large industrial warehouse and one could conceivably fit a large tall ship or ocean liner within its walls. It had yet to be cleaned and there was a considerable amount of Laurent's artist materials scattered within the space, even some discarded drawings, sketches and pre-designs, all contained in the corner of the warehouse. Holmes poured over them, while I looked around in awe of how one man could produce such an epically large stone statue and wondered at the logistics in its transportation from here to the National Gallery. Stone dust layered the ground underneath my feet. Here I saw the footsteps of two people. One was most definitely a man, Laurent, no doubt, but the second set were ill defined and unclear. I entertained the thought that Laurent and Thérèse had eloped together and chosen not to tell of it to Adeline.

"Watson." I glanced up and across the warehouse toward Holmes's voice. "Have you found anything?"

"Footsteps." He joined me and examined the imprints in the stone dust.

"There it is again. The floral odour." He flashed his look around the warehouse and locked his gaze on a metallic bathtub in the corner of the room.

"My God, this is most macabre. And the ugliest of crimes we are ever likely to come across." He said, while examining the bathtub and the trace signs of rose petals and lavender within.

"You have come to a conclusion?"

"Yes."

"What happened? Is Thérèse still alive, can she be saved? Is Laurent responsible?"

"I fear not. The crime was committed long before our involvement, we had no hope of saving Thérèse.. Our only hope is to find and catch this Christophe Laurent."

"But how?"

He pondered this a moment and paced the room. "If my estimation of Laurent's character and his reasons for this crime are correct then a trap may be set for him."

"A trap?"

"A threat against his work. For I believe it is the only thing that has the remotest of meaning to him, after the loss of Thérèse, whom I think he considers the love of his life. And it will have the double inspiration of threatening to reveal his ugly crime."

"Very well but what kind of threat?"

"The destruction of his centrepiece. Didn't Pierre Say, say he ran an artistic news journal of some sort?"

"I believe so."

"Then perhaps we can create a reaction piece to his work and a keenly placed threat against it within the journal."

"But will that be enough to draw him out? What if he doesn't subscribe to the journal or read reviews of his own work? And will a threat of vandalism not draw the attention of the Police?"

"Hopefully Watson, hopefully," said he and walked out of the warehouse. I was left considerably bemused by Holmes's thinking pertaining to what conclusions he had arrived at. When I asked him in the carriage he refused to answer.

"All will soon be revealed. That is, if our trap for Laurent works."

Holmes convinced Peter Serry to publish his faux review in his journal, a rather startlingly cruel evaluation of the work that likened it to a high class fun house as Holmes described on our first encounter with it. The article went on further and questioned Laurent's morality and even his worth as a human being. It was, in essence, a character assassination of the cruellest kind and I pointed out to Holmes that it may just drive the man to suicide, instead of instil motivated anger and a defence of his work.

"I have a secondary plan," he said presenting a hand written letter. I read it over. It was something close to a death threat, but not upon Laurent himself, but his work. And detailed plans to destroy the exhibit on Wednesday at the stroke of midnight.

"Why Wednesday?"

"To allow time for the letter and the article to reach him by post, of course."

"And did he leave a forwarding address, his apartment was empty, after all."

"Again you prove yourself invaluable, we shall make enquires with his landlord."

With all the details cleared up there was little left to do but wait. Laurent had indeed left a forwarding address, and there we sent the letter and the faux copy of Peter Serry's journal. Mary arrived back from Belgium on the Monday and I told her of the story over dinner. She was intrigued and greatly disturbed by the ordeal and we whiled away the evening in a walk along the river seine speculating at both Holmes's plan and the conclusions he had reached but declined to tell. When I arrived home I found a telegram from Holmes asking me to meet him and Adeline at the Red Lion Inn on Wednesday evening.

"What value would you place on Laurent's exhibit, Madame De Monseignat?" He asked after we had settled at our table by the window with some drinks.

"It earns myself and my husband a comfortable living and indeed provides healthy funding for the arts in general."

"And what if the exhibit was lost or destroyed, how much of an impact would that make?"

"I dare say, our lives would carry on as normal, but we wouldn't be able to afford extra luxuries."

"And you would be willing to sacrifice such luxuries, so as to know the fate of your sister?"

"You know where she is?"

"I believe I do. "

"Please, you must tell me this instant."

"I don't believe that would be wise, if I tell you now and I am wrong, then I will have put you through needless sorrow and pain." She took a big gulp of her drink in an attempt to ease her shattered nerves. "Now I must ask your permission to do something that may seem, how shall I put this..." He paused in thought and both I and Adeline waited on his answer. "I may need to destroy the centrepiece statue or at least a part of it."

"Why on earth would you want to do that?"

"So as to catch your sister's abductor red handed and there can be no doubt as to his guilt."

"Then you must do whatever you see necessary." Adeline said with a sorrowful expression. Holmes checked his pocket watch and stood.

"We must go, there is little time remaining before midnight."

"Go? Go where?" Adeline asked.

"The National Gallery Of British Art of course, I trust you can gain us access at this late hour?"

And thus it was that we entered the National Gallery and waited outside the door to the room that housed the La Garouille statue. It was approaching midnight when I heard the loud thunder of horse hooves from the courtyard, followed by pounding footsteps. They grew louder and louder as they made there way through the halls and the exhibit rooms themselves. Leading the officers was none other than Inspector Lestrade. Who recoiled with surprise upon seeing us.

"Holmes? What on earth are you doing here?"

"Arrest him. Arrest him now." Came a voice from behind him. I had not seen him before but I took it on good faith that this was Christophe Laurent. A young man in his mid twenties, pale and gaunt in his stature with an unkempt beard and clothes that looked like rags hanging off his gaunt frame. He bounded past us and into the chamber. We and the police followed him inside.

"But... But..." Laurent whirled around with relief after seeing the statue was fully intact. "Inspector Lestrade you still have good reason to arrest that man, now I demand you do it."

"I am here with the approval of Madame De Monseignat and Laurent, I believe you are the one that is going to be arrested."

"Holmes, please explain yourself and this business." Holmes calmly walked toward the statue and positioned himself near La Gargouille's tail and proceeded to pluck a mallet and a heavey chisel from the bag, in the next instant he hammered away at the statue with a brute force and to my surprise cracks began to form from his blow and form a spiders web pattern.

"Don't just stand there, stop him!" Laurent exclaimed. But Lestrade did nothing. When Laurent made a move toward Holmes, Lestrade stopped him, grabbing his arm and curtailing him backwards. Holmes applied several more well placed blows upon the statue until a hole was formed and to my surprise a clear liquid spilled out onto the floor and along with it, the aroma of that self same perfume. Adeline yelped in shock, clasped her hand over her mouth and turned away when she saw what followed with the liquid. Thérèse's pale naked body. Even the Garnimarde's officers looked on in horror. Silent shock hung over the room, only broken by Adeline's tears. Laurent attempted to turn and run, but Lestrade's officers soon grabbed him and wrestled him to the floor.

I personally performed the autopsy on Thérèse's body. The alcohol in the perfume had done its work in preserving the body. She was killed two months ago, and the primary cause of death, I concluded to be drowning. I paused in reflection at the horror of it and the torture this woman must have gone through before her death. Perhaps if her sister had been more involved in her life it would not have come to this, perhaps it could've been stopped. But such speculation is hopelessly futile. The perfume was hand made by Laurent, he later told in his confession. His intent was to immortalise Thérèse in his art, that she would become a part of his creation, ' _an extension of his very own artistic soul_ ' he put it. He also confessed to using some of her vital fluids in the paints he used, blood, sweat, saliva, even her tears. He kept her in that warehouse under the spell of chloroform and built the statue around her unconscious body upon a frame he had designed himself. The designs for which Holmes had found within the warehouse but chose not to reveal until now.

Laurent was sentenced to death by hanging and his work Adeline chose to destroy curtailing Laurent's designs on immortality. There is now no record in history of his work and Laurent himself.

Adeline never truly recovered from this. Her exuberant spirit and her penchant for stirring up controversy was considerably dampened, and eventually altogether gone. She, like her sister, retreated within herself and led a quiet and conservative lifestyle with her husband in the same family château Thérèse had been abducted from. The case and its results in destroying the lives of those close to it hung heavy on my thoughts for several months afterwards and I almost envied Holmes's emotional detachment.


End file.
